


A Lesson. Or two.

by blue_like_barnes



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Fluff, F/M, Precious Peter Parker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:01:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24377644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_like_barnes/pseuds/blue_like_barnes
Summary: Peter Parker can't dance. Or can he?
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 35





	A Lesson. Or two.

“You have a CD collection?”

Bucky braces himself for the joke that inevitably follows such question, lips pressing into a grim line as he unzips the case that takes up nearly half his small dining table and opens it to the colorful array of discs nestled inside.

The peculiarity isn’t lost on him- tech that would’ve rendered him giddy as a kid now dated. A cause for comments like _How old are you?_ And, _Don’t you have a phone?_

But he likes the graphics. The tangibility of something physical. The fact that he can drop twenty on a stack of them from the second hand store and suffer no real loss over lackluster ones he frisbees to the back of unsuspecting bird-brained heads whilst retorting, “Can’t do that with a phone, can I?”

So despite the criticism, Bucky values the merit of CDs.

But criticism doesn’t come from the kid hovered over his collection now, brown curls flopped messily across his forehead as he navigates the sleeves delicately like they’re made of something precious.

Instead, the declaration that follows is an emphatic, “This is cool,” as he crouches to gain a closer view.

And Bucky, in spite of himself, grins.

It’s an expression he finds mirrored on you, perched on his island counter with your legs crossed, picking through a half eaten bag of forgotten gummy worms he’d stuffed into a candy jar days earlier. 

You waggle your brows, playfully impressed by the new _Cool Guy_ status bestowed upon him, and he swaggers the distance between you, propping an arm onto the countertop as he juts his chin out and plucks a blue and red striped worm from your fingers.

“ _I’m_ cool,” he declares, pulling the candy between his teeth.

“He said the CDs were cool.”

“I own them, cool by proxy.”

You let go of a laugh that twinges his insides, capturing the attention of the boy hovering feet away.

“I’m picking the music” Peter Parker says, eyes dancing between the two of you momentarily as he twirls a silver disc between his fingertips.

“Sure, kid,” Bucky answers, “Whatever you want.”

It’s an unusual situation he’s found himself in, shunted inside on a Friday night off a promise he made to a desperately nervous high school senior preparing for prom. But Parker had been more frenetic and babbling than usual when he’d approached him with the plea to learn to dance. And though it had been literal decades since he’d considered himself an authority on such leisure, Bucky’d been hard pressed to turn down someone so persistently eager.

You’d arrived in tow with a wink and a smile, soft spot for the boy pegging you as the obvious recruit. You’d nudged Bucky’s shoulder before sidestepping him to raid his candy stash, “Heard I was going to see Gene Kelly tonight.” And he’d grinned so wide it feathered those little creases out from the corners of his eyes.

It would be no stretch to call you his favorite person. 

A whirlwind of personality that blindsided him when he really kind of needed it most. When his world had ended the same time everyone else’s began again and he’d found himself on what he quickly learned to be the tougher side of loss. 

You were working in Nursultan, active pursuit alongside Sam’s Captain debut, the three of you bone soaked and slogged through sleet and rain when he’d made a miscalculation that shot you through ice capped lake faster than he could stop it.

“Shit,” he’d said after dragging you out, “didn’t think I could get you any more wet.”

And you’d promptly and relentlessly laughed at his chagrin over the discovery of such accidental innuendo until, by the end of it, he was laughing, too.

Maybe it was an unconscious endeavor- the determination to pull that same kind of laugh out of you ever since, but it was the least he could do for you making everything less hard. For making it easier to forget. 

For knowing him not as James Buchanan Barnes or the Winter Soldier. Not as a ghost story or a tragic and cautionary tale. But as Buckster. Bucko. Bucky Boy. Every other affable alliteration sat on the line of _now_ and not _then_. 

For being his friend _now_. For loving him _now_.

Really…he kind of owes you the world for that.

He barters gummy worms with you on a wide, doe eyed stare and pouted lips while Peter makes his way over to the stereo, a free Craigslist find Bucky was able to get working again, and slowly loads a handful of carefully selected discs into the changer. 

You fall for it easy. Call yourself a sucker and playfully tweak his cheek, and Bucky takes the opportunity to swipe the remaining sweets from your other hand, your cry of protest doused in laughter as you shove sour sugared fingers into the sleeve of his t-shirt in retaliation.

Parker’s waiting with a bit of unintelligible smile after the squabble between you is over. 

“Ready?” He says to you. Bucky can’t tell how much is a put on, or if he is just always so blatantly enthusiastic, but there is something about the kid that’s so damn endearing he can’t help but like. 

“I don’t know, Pete,” you say, hopping off the counter, crouching down to cuff your jeans, “I feel like Pepper would’ve been a more graceful partner. Buck’s gonna have his hands full teaching both of us. Did you ask her?”

“Are you kidding?” he dismisses, fingers fiddling over the remote while his free hand snags at his curls, “First of all she’s…terrifying. Smart in that alienating way, you know? And just. Intimidating. To look at. But you’re-”

“Dumb and ugly enough to make you comfortable?”

Bucky swears he sees the moment the poor kid’s soul leaves his body. Face drained of blood as wide fearful eyes dart up to yours, and Peter’s mouth gapes open in shock.

“What?” He says, “No. No no I wasn’t saying that at all. I definitely didn’t say that. Did I say that?”

“Well-”

“I just meant you’re not like that-”

“Uh huh.” 

“Help me out here-” He implores Bucky.

“Sure. Get the foot out of your mouth.”

You turn your head just enough to share mirth gilded eyes and a teasing smile with only him, and Bucky parrots it back with insides that feel like they’re bottoming out on a rollercoaster.

You let Parker squirm. Insist how pretty he thinks you are before likening you to more of an older sister, before devolving into panicked justification about you _not_ _actually_ being his sister, thus absolving the weirdness of calling you pretty. It’s not like the two of you look anything alike, anyway.

It’s a magnificent fuckery of words, to put it kindly, until you finally put him out of his misery with a laugh and a, “Relax, Parker. I know what you were trying to say.” But Bucky can tell by that bit of touched softness behind your eyes that what you really took out of it all was him equating you so closely, “Now are we dancing, or what?”

Parker just takes a protective step backward and says, “Well now I think you’re going to hurt me…”

He’s more of a visual learner anyway, he winds up arguing, even after you’ve forced a hug out of him and ruffled his hair and affectionately termed him _baby_ _brother_. He would benefit more from watching first, he swears. And it has nothing to do with his newly placed fear of you. Nothing at all.

And that’s how Bucky winds up opposite you first, fingers threaded through yours, the other set placed gingerly at your waist.

Despite your self proclaimed expertise in _Dancing_ _With_ _the_ _Stars_ viewership coupled with so called ‘amateur-professional’ knowledge of dances like the Lindy Hop and the Rumba, your actual movements leave something to be desired, and by the time Bucky’s persuaded you into the basics of a box step, he’s smiling so hard his face hurts.

It feels…better than he thought. Foreign, but still familiar in the vein of climbing back onto a bicycle. New in a way that he’s never had such fun with a partner who can’t actually dance. He peppers a few tips and pointers to Pete that eventually die off as the kid cycles through songs Bucky swears are better suited for the back of Sam’s head. But he likes it when you nod along to some of them. When you attempt to impress him with something ill advised, and your fingers tighten around his after your feet stutter beneath you. And when, after he convinces you into a turn that isn’t at all sure footed, you bubble with effervescent laughter as he steadies you against him.

The kind of laughter he really likes.The kind he can lose himself in with you.

“Stop looking at your feet,” he urges, “just look at me.” And you blink up with eyes that are just gloriously luminous and so tender it makes him ache all over. 

The world is revived again with a rap at the door, Peter’s lightning quick reflexes reminding Bucky he’s still there. He pauses to watch as the kid intercepts what’s pushed through the opening, quietly dismissing the voice on the other side that barks, “This isn’t my job, you know?”

“Was that Happy?” You ask as he pushes the door to again, balancing a covered dish and bottle of wine he carries quickly back to where he was seated before, nodding offhandedly.

“Just doing me a favor,” he says.

“Dinner?” Bucky jokes, ready to be the buzzkill that tells him there’s no way he’s letting a child drink under his supervision, before noticing that in the time he’s been occupied his bistro table has gone from housing his collection of music, to a clothed and candled set up.

For two. 

He turns to meet your equally bemused expression as Peter pays neither of you mind, spreading his new findings out as he confirms, “ _A_ dinner. Not mine.”

From somewhere on his person he pulls a little vialed vase housing a single rose, looking immensely proud of himself as he places it in the center of the table while feigning a casual tone, “So hey,” he says, “you know when there are two people who are suited for one another in a really obvious way, and everyone around them just knows it, but for some reason they never do anything about it?” 

He produces a match next, sparking it between his fingers before lighting two slender pillars and shaking it out, “So those people take it upon themselves to do something about it. And the smarter, more enterprising one- well, he’s the one who actually gets the ball rolling…so to speak.”

Finally, he looks up at both of you with a self pleased smile. He stares at you, your matched bewilderment, and sighs when the response he is expecting doesn’t come. 

“Guys,” he scoffs, holding out both hands like it should be obvious, “You know I can dance, right?” As if to demonstrate, he rolls his shoulders in a bizarre move that makes Bucky inwardly cringe and says, “It’s like, the only cool thing about me…”

And, “Really,” Bucky murmurs, after a moment to process, and another to remind himself to breathe again, “a skewed perception of cool-”

Beside him, you allow a soft snort.

“Was that a compliment, or…Because it could go either way-”

“A compliment,” you confirm for him, words low and, Bucky suspects, hopes, touched, “You’re very cool.”

“Well,” Peter says with finality, “on that note-” he crosses the room with some Mission Accomplished swagger that Bucky’s suddenly sure is attached to bragging rights that will be dispersed among whoever is involved once he steps through that door. And damn, he thinks, if anyone gets to carry those for something he probably should have done a long time ago, he’s kind of glad it’s the kid.

Still, he holds out a hand as Pete’s fingers poise on the knob of the door, “You’re a little more deceptive than what I would have guessed,” he says, “Kind of insulting.”

“Yeah?” he answers, tugging it open, “so is your complete acceptance and unquestioning of my naivety.” With one final, cursory glance, and a smug little grin, “I’m eighteen, guys. Grow up,” he steps out, disappearing with a click.

In newfound silence, Bucky waits for the awkwardness to bloom. But he turns slowly to look at you, and you’re smiling that soft, joyous smile that kilters his insides a bit. The one he mirrors back to you, framed in little lines that feather up to the corners of his eyes. And even though he’s suddenly an array of nerves, none of them, in that moment, feel scared or misplaced or _wrong_.

Because it wouldn’t be a stretch to call you his favorite person. 

His best friend. 

Maybe more.

“Looks like pasta,” you offer, tipping your head toward the table, “We could Lady and the Tramp it, if you want. Meet in the middle.” 

His shoulders break with laughter. Gentle, affectionate and warm. “Sure,” he answers, “But maybe I could get a slow one out of you, first?”

“I’m good with slow.”

He rifles through his collection, fishing out Bing’s Broadway Favorites and loading it into the changer.

He wants to laugh a little more at the brazen audacity of Peter Parker, but that can come later. For now, he revels in the feeling of gathering you into his arms, guiding you flush against him and lacing his fingers proper with yours, palm to palm.

Softly, you rest your head onto his shoulder, “This feels right?” You question.

“Yeah,” he says, giving your fingers a gentle squeeze, “it really does.”

He sways you to the jazzy smoothness of Crosby’s soothing baritone, a bit of fond nostalgia that is a little more James Barnes than he’s given to anyone in a very long time.

Because maybe he is that Bucky Boy you adore now, with a little bit of _then_ thrown in there after all. And maybe, with you, he can actually entertain it- letting himself fall.

It’s wonderful, so they say.


End file.
